


fault lines

by adhoori



Series: I built a home (for you, for me) [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Depressed Steve Rogers, Fix-It, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Steve Rogers Gets a Hug, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:40:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23421064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adhoori/pseuds/adhoori
Summary: Steve wakes up from the nightmare, breathing harshly and in time for the first snowfall of the year. It had felt so real right down to the part where everyone around him turned to dust. The compound is quiet, and he realizes he must’ve dozed off on the couch while reading. He feels off-kilter and irritable, annoyed at himself because he’d probably just ruined the possibility of getting any sleep tonight. Taking a few deep breaths, he throws on a jacket and a pair of boots over his warm socks before stepping out. Outside, the snow falls in soft tufts and Steve exhales shakily, deciding against staying. It looked peaceful, and he was warm in his jacket but Steve felt like the cold might seep into his bones anyway._____Or, how Steve Rogers builds a life, after losing everything. It is both easier, and harder than it sounds.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Series: I built a home (for you, for me) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1416637
Comments: 23
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bucksreyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucksreyes/gifts), [leathermouthed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leathermouthed/gifts).



> I posted two chapters of this fic a few weeks ago, but it didn't sit right with me, so I took some time off and reworked a few bits and decided to post it all at once!
> 
> each part is set in a year in the five-year period they didn't show in the movie, just because I wanted to explore more about steve in that time! timeline-wise part 1-4 of this fic fall before part 1 of the series, part 5 before part 2 and chapter 2 is just a soft epilogue.
> 
> title is from [earth by sleeping at last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g1YQgjpnJdo), which is a very steve song and one I had on repeat while writing parts of this fic. 
> 
> this fic does depict steve going through mental health issues (and getting better!) but please take care of yourselves and if you'd like me to elaborate, please feel free to send me an [ask on tumblr](https://hasan-minhaj.tumblr.com/ask) or [dm on twitter](https://twitter.com/history_huh), as you wish!
> 
> last but not the least, this fic is for [jas](https://bucksreyes.tumblr.com/) and [lou](https://sebasttians.tumblr.com/), for reading all my snippets, yelling at me and cheering me on. love you!! <3

###  **2019**

They kill Thanos. It’s surprisingly anticlimactic and they each drift off in their own directions in the aftermath. Thor retires to a small town with the rest of Asgard. Bruce retreats to academic life. Tony settles down. Natasha takes over the avengers and does what they do best: protect Earth. Steve picks a room in the compound and doesn’t leave it unless it’s to grab food. No one really hears from each other and for once, Steve can’t bring himself to reach out, to help, to do anything. Natasha leaves him alone and he’s grateful. He feels spent, like he has nothing more to give, not to Natasha and not to the rest of them.

Most nights he can’t sleep, so he lies in bed, his brain running a million miles an hour, his bones growing heavier with exhaustion until he crashes and inevitably wakes up a few short hours later from a nightmare. 

He tries to get out of bed, he does. He makes it to the shower, washes himself mechanically, out of habit, but finds that getting out of the room pushes his limits so he gets back into bed. He’s jittery, body thrumming with a particular kind of nervous tension even as it aches with how tired he is. He breaks the glass of water next to the bed when he flings his arm out in the middle of a nightmare. His hands don’t stop shaking all day. 

***

Steve wakes up, heart racing, his body sagging in relief when he realizes it isn’t real. He doesn’t even remember what it was, but his body feels stiff and unyielding from being tense for that long. His heart is beating loudly in his chest and he rubs his palm against his chest unconsciously, trying to calm down. Eventually, when it feels like he can breathe again, he sits up, leaning against the headboard, drawing his knees to his chest. Sunlight streams into the room and he looks outside the window. It’s a warm, sunny day and he thinks that should make him feel something,  _ anything _ , but mostly he’s just so, so tired.

It’s not like he has anywhere to be, so he sits there, hyperfocused on that one bird that keeps fluttering its wings against his window insistently. He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, but eventually, it flies away and his stomach growls, reminding him of the dinner he’d forgotten to eat the night before. Steve looks around him and feels dull. Muted, like everything around him lacks life. He thinks about how he does what he has to, just the bare minimum but it feels like it takes all of his strength and then some. He looks around him, the room is...well, not dirty because that would require it being furnished beyond the bare bones, but...stale. Like it hasn’t seen fresh air in weeks. The haphazardly (if at all) put-together space grates at him. It looks like how he feels. Disjointed. Flat. Dim in an abandoned, left-alone, kind of way even though he was right here.

_ Here is relative _ , Steve thinks. Sure he’s  _ here _ but he can’t remember the last time he felt anything but crippling mental fatigue, a lack of will that left him feeling adrift in the worst of ways. He thinks about how months ago they’d worked tirelessly, thought about bringing everyone back, thought that if they could only find Thanos and overpower him, this would be over. This living, breathing ordeal that he’s gone through more times than anyone should have to. This time, it felt final. There were no more stones. They really had lost everyone. He’d never see them again. How many times could he lose everything before it broke him? He finds he doesn’t particularly want to know.

He sits at the edge of his bed, feeling the cold from the tiled floor seep into his bare feet, bringing him out of the sluggish grind of his thoughts and the way they swim in his head incessantly. He walks towards the bathroom, absentmindedly scratching at his stomach. These days their anger, their denial of accepting that they’d lost feels like a distant memory. Now all he feels is a useless emptiness when he’s not filled with guilt over what happened or worse, when he feels nothing at all.

Steve looks at himself in the mirror, taking in his reflection while brushing his teeth. He’s pale, worn out, and wishes not for the first time that it made him feel something. He looks at the body that was tailor-made to be a soldier and selfishly wishes he didn’t have it, because it felt like a burden sometimes. It makes him feel like he should be out there, doing something because how else would he repay this gift. Except now there’s nothing to be done and somehow, everyone seems to be able to live with that when he mostly just feels meaningless. Wasted.

The water is scalding, just the way he likes it and Steve makes quick work of his shower before heading downstairs. He scours the fridge, takes out some of their frozen food and pops it in the microwave to reheat and drinks one of his protein shakes while he’s at it. They’re dense and taste awful, but they take care of a significant portion of his calorie requirements without him putting in any effort, so Steve’s a fan.

The compound sounds quiet, although he has no doubt that Natasha is in the control room, like she always is. He thinks about going to see her, but it’s been weeks since they’ve spoken and now he doesn’t know what he’d say.  _ Sorry, I’ve been avoiding you, _ doesn’t sound like it’d cut it. Selfishly, he thinks that she could have come to him too, which now that he’s thought it sounds exactly as childish as he’d thought it would be. Still, he wonders when they’ll stop slinking around each other, pretending everything is okay.

He heaps some of the casserole on his plate and wanders out to the dining area for the first time in weeks. Half the table is full of files and paperwork, which Steve assumes is Natasha’s. Belatedly, he realizes he doesn’t even know what she’s working on and he looks away guiltily. Steve polishes the food off in record speed and finally feels full, and a little drowsy. He pushes the chair back, the sound piercing the quiet and turns around only to see Natasha standing there, reaching for a file.

She looks tired, the circles under her eyes pronounced in a way he’s rarely seen before. Steve wants to say something, the right set of words that will make everything okay but he’s never really been good at that, so he murmurs a soft  _ hi _ , winces at how his voice is rough with disuse and hopes it’s enough.

Natasha looks surprised that he’s spoken at all, which does nothing to abate his uneasy stomach. “Hi,” she says all careful and gentle as if she’s talking to someone wounded, someone who spooks easily. Steve tries not to let it sting.

“What are-what’re you working on?”

“Rhodey said he might have something on Clint—a lead, maybe. I don’t know yet,” she answers.

Steve nods, not knowing what else to say. He feels foolish, thinking he could smooth things over. He’s somehow managed to fuck up the one friend he had left, of course he had. He can feel Natasha’s eyes on him, perceptive and keen, and he resists the urge to curl inwards. Maybe he should’ve just stayed in his room.

“We could go to the gym later, if you want,” she says, and it comes out soft and hesitant and not like Natasha at all.

“I don’t—not today,” he replies apologetically. He can feel his entire body groan in protest, the thought of going to the gym, of sparring, it’s—no.

“Yeah, okay, no problem. Some other time,” she says quietly and Steve can tell she’s let down.

“Sorry, I just—”

“I’m worried about you.”

Steve looks at her, a little taken aback that she’s being so direct. She usually just had a way of carefully dancing around things until people spilled all their secrets to her of their own volition and she’s never pushed him before.

“I’m worried, Steve. This isn’t a life. You can’t live like this.”

He crosses his arms across his chest and then immediately feels ridiculous because he’s an open book to Natasha, nothing he does intimidates her, never has. He swallows roughly, feeling defensive, his skin prickling with annoyance.

“Neither can you, you know.”

He watches her face harden briefly before she composes herself. “No, I guess not.”

Steve pushes a hand through his hair and exhales harshly. “I’m sorry I didn’t—that was uncalled for.”

He slumps into the pushed back chair, suddenly drained and wrings his fingers together, grateful when Natasha sits opposite him. “I’m sorry, I know I haven’t been around.”

She smiles a half-smile, “It’s okay, I thought you needed space.”

“Not from you, not really.” He can feel his eyes sting, feel his body bow under the weight of his mind and he’s beyond exhausted, filled with a bone-deep weariness that he doesn’t think will ever let go of him. “I’m not doing so well,” he says, biting his lip in an effort to get through this, to at least try and explain that it’s not that he doesn’t want to—he wishes he could go back to the way things were, he does—but that he just can't.

Natasha keeps the files aside and clasps her hands in front of her tight enough that Steve can see the whites of her knuckles, the clench of her jaw and he wonders how he thought she was doing okay. Up close, her hair is messy, thrown into a bun with none of her careful consideration. She looks beat, and Steve feels like he should’ve been there for her if nothing else. She studies him with red-rimmed eyes before murmuring, “I’m not—neither am I, Steve.”

Steve watches her, takes her in. She looks like she’s barely holding herself together and feels like he should’ve noticed that, should’ve been a better friend. Maybe he would have, if he ever got out of his room. He looks at her and vows to himself to do better. If he couldn’t do anything else, if this was all he was good for, that would be enough.

“I don’t want to go to the gym, not today,” he says cautiously, “But maybe, if you want, we can, uh, watch something? A movie?”

“You want to watch a movie?”

Steve feels the uptick at the corner of his mouth and it feels unfamiliar—it’s been a while—but he smiles at her anyway, even if it’s small and brittle. “Why, you got plans, Romanoff?”

She huffs in disbelief. “Yeah, okay, let’s do it.”

***

Later, when Natasha goes back to her office and he’s back in his room, Steve opens the window and picks up some of his clothes to put them in the laundry hamper. It’s not a lot, but it feels like a start.

###  **2020**

Steve startles awake, feet flying off the couch and onto the carpet below it. The movement flings the blanket off his body and he pauses, taking stock of his surroundings, his heart hammering, the sound loud in his ears, at odds with the silence in the room. Belatedly, he realizes Natasha probably put the blanket on him after he fell asleep after (during?) their movie night. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to will his body into losing some of the tension while trying to remember when he’d fallen asleep. They were almost at the end of The Parent Trap, he recalls.

The carpet is soft, the feathers slipping between his toes and he lets the sensation ground him. In the few months since he’s started going to therapy, this has been the most helpful for him. Focusing on his senses, counting things that he feels, smells, hears and tastes, it brings him down faster than anything else that he’s tried thus far. He takes another deep breath while cataloging the way his t-shirt sticks to his back, the way his sweat cools from the air conditioning, the ambient sound of the refrigerator in the kitchen. The clock above the mantle tells him it’s almost five in the morning and he figures now is as good a time as any to start the day. He knows he won’t be getting any more sleep and a little over five hours is practically the longest he’s slept in the past week anyway.

Steve clears their popcorn bowls and makes up the couch before heading to his room. It’s still chilly outside, and his foot twitches when it hits the cold, tiled bathroom floor. He trims his beard and runs his fingers through his hair, noting that it’s overdue for a haircut. Maybe over the weekend. It’s almost spring and there’s a nip in the air so Steve keeps his shower hot, his breath escaping in a sigh when the water covers his body. He doesn’t linger and steps out as soon as he’s done washing, towel around his waist. 

For a second as he looks into the mirror he thinks  _ Bucky _ , in the way his hair flops on his face. It’s really nothing like Bucky at all, but Steve is hit with memories of hot summer nights and Bucky coming home and heading straight into the shower. Privately, Steve always thought Bucky looked more like Bucky once he’d showered and changed, once the rough edges of whatever second, sometimes third part-time job he had that month were smoothed out. More often than not he looked over one of Steve’s commissions after dinner, always generous with his praise while Steve tried not to squirm in discomfort. God, they were poor and he was so sick all the time, but Steve thinks maybe he misses it. It was a simpler life in some ways, his world was smaller and his problems were bigger but he had Bucky. Even when they had nothing, even when they struggled to put food on the table, he had Bucky.

Steve rubs the towel over his hair, drying it with more vigor than it probably required, trying not to think about Bucky. All it did was fill him up with guilt until it threatened to choke him, all the times he could’ve,  _ should’ve _ saved Bucky, but didn’t.  _ That wasn’t your fault _ , Dr. Shaw’s voice in his head reminds him. Some days Steve does an okay job of pretending like he believes that. Today is not one of those days.

Suddenly tired, he slips into his clothes and steps out of the bathroom, heading straight for the kitchen. He fills the coffee machine with water and waits for the coffee to brew. Peripherally, he sees Natasha heading towards him and pulls out another mug from the cupboard over his head.

“Morning,” she says and he catches the red indents on her feet from her ballet shoes.

“Morning,” he replies belatedly, handing her a mug. “You’ve been up for a while?”

“Couldn’t sleep, woke up a few hours ago,” she says in between sips.

Steve smiles wryly. “I passed out on the couch a few hours ago, Nat.”

She shrugs and takes another gulp in lieu of an answer. He thinks it best to leave alone. She always talks about it when she’s ready.

Natasha pours herself some more coffee and sits on the counter. “You have plans today?”

Steve sets his mug down, shaking his head. “Kind of. Not really? I have Group in the evening and then I thought I might stop by the art store.”

That piques her interest and Steve fights to keep his face casual. He’s been trying not to make this a big deal. “Yeah, I uh, I promised Dr. Shaw— Ruth, that I’d try.”

“Draw me like one of your French girls, Rogers,” she teases and he huffs in amusement.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Sure it is. You were happy for me when I picked up ballet again a few weeks ago.”

“This is-”

“Not different at all, so shut up,” she finishes for him and he obeys, smiling.

***

He slides into an empty chair and pockets his phone, smiling at Sameen.

“Hi Steve,” she says, hanging her purse from the chair. Steve is grateful for the anonymity his beard seems to have gotten him. Here, he’s just Steve. Just some guy who’s going through the aftermath of the Blip just like everyone else. Sameen had been his first friend here a few months ago. He likes to think they bonded over the sheer discomfort of opening up in front of strangers.

“How’s Daniel doing?”

“He joined Little League,” she says, smiling proudly.

She takes out her phone to show him a picture and Steve can’t help but smile at Daniel’s gap-toothed grin. “He’s gonna do great.”

“Thanks,” she replies, before sliding her phone back into her purse. “How’ve you been?”

“Some days are better than others, you know how it is.”

She nods and turns to face the rest of them, and Steve follows suit.

For the most part, Steve likes the group. It’s not too big and he’s only shared a couple of times but he has to admit, it makes him feel slightly less alone. On good days, he remembers he’s not alone. On bad ones, it makes him feel responsible for their losses too, but he comes every week anyway. He’d promised Nat, and for better or for worse, the accountability helped.

Far too soon it’s his turn and Dave looks at him, insipidly kind and accommodating and Steve surprises himself by saying, “I’ve been thinking a lot about James lately.”

“Would you like to share?”

“I— sure. I’ve been thinking a lot about when we were kids?” Steve stumbles through an explanation, trying not to divulge that  _ when they were kids _ meant 1937. It’s almost all true, he talks about how it’s almost James’,  _ Bucky’s _ birthday, and swallows past the lump in his throat. “I miss him,” he says. He doesn’t say how he feels responsible, he leaves that for Ruth and another day. Instead, he talks about Coney Island, and how he’d thrown up after riding the Cyclone and how Bucky had saved up enough to buy them both dinner. Half-truths sprinkled in with some lies to make them more believable, but Steve makes it work and they buy it. 

It leaves him feeling sour, like he’d somehow been disingenuous to Bucky. Steve chalks it down to his lack of sleep. Sharing never sat well with him anyway. They thank him, Dave talks a little about loss and they move on to Marie. Steve tries desperately, to focus on what she’s saying.

Later, when he’s leaving one of the new guys, Malcolm catches up to him. Steve remembers him, it’s only his second week here. He schools his face into what he hopes looks friendly.

Malcolm looks awkward but determined. “Hey man, sorry, I just- uh, I wanted to say thanks? Your story it— it reminded me of Oliver, he’s—was—my-”

“Boyfriend, I remember,” Steve says not unkindly.

“Yeah—I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’ve been thinking a lot about him too and you just reminded me that maybe I should think of the good times more?” He wrings his hands together. “This makes no sense, sorry I’m rambling at you,” he says apologetically and Steve shakes his head.

“You’re not,” he says.

“Anyway, I just—I wanted to say thanks. It’s hard losing a partner like that. Hang in there, dude.” 

Steve watches dumbly as Malcolm pushes up his glasses and gives an aborted little wave before dashing out. Is that what people thought?  _ Partner _ . The word sits on his tongue, at once perfect and yet wholly inadequate for what he and Bucky were. Steve had never—he’d never considered it and Bucky was just... _ Bucky _ . They weren’t—surely he would’ve realized sooner if he’d had feelings for Bucky.

He walks back to the compound, forgetting about the art store entirely, his mind buzzing as he tries to come to terms with this new...perspective, for lack of a better word. It’s a long walk and the cold air nips at his face but all he can think of is Malcolm’s words. Bucky was his best friend, his family, his—  _ everything _ , he realizes. Steve had spent the past year mourning his loss but this—this feels like being dunked in ice water, a new loss, he’d never known—maybe they would’ve gotten there in time, but now Steve was here alone, stuck with the delayed realization of what his feelings meant and Bucky was...gone.

Steve enters the authorization code, steps into the hallway and heads straight to his room. He sits on the bed, his body numb and his eyes stinging. Time is a funny thing, Steve thinks. Somehow seventy-odd years later, he’s too late. Again. He feels the hot tracks of his tears down his face and wishes he could go back to locking things in a box and shoving it deep inside, he had no desire to feel this way, it never led to anywhere good. Steve doesn’t know why he’d thought the worst was over, that he’d done all the right things and sure, it was difficult, but he was doing his bit, going to meetings, going to therapy, trying not to shut himself off. This—Steve  _ wishes  _ he could forget this.

Exhausted, he curls up under the comforter and closes his eyes. There would be no sleep, he knows this, but his head feels heavy, and his body feels slow-moving so he tries anyway. It doesn’t work. Steve feels ill with want, things he’s never thought of are suddenly all he yearns for. He feels stupid, Malcolm’s words were innocuous, and here he is, his world turned upside down. Steve lets himself dream idly, little things, like Bucky calling him  _ Stevie _ again but it’s intimate, soft, and it’s so easy— _ too easy _ —to imagine. The thing is, in a universe where Bucky somehow felt the same, Steve knows they’d work. He can feel it in his bones, loving Bucky would’ve been the easiest damn thing in his life. 

He stays there, curled up, unmoving, till the tears stop spilling. How  _ do _ you mourn something you never had and never will? Steve exhales a deep, shuddering breath, scrubbing a hand over his face. It’d be easy to just lie there, slip into his mind and forget his surroundings, god knows he’s done it before. Instead, he makes himself get out of bed, change, and splash water on his face. It does little to help him, he looks at himself in the mirror, all unruly hair and bloodshot eyes, but it’ll do.

Steve heads downstairs and finds Natasha in the control room. He clears his throat, not that she needs a heads-up, and she looks at him in concern. He knows what he looks like, his eyes are still red-rimmed and he’s somehow simultaneously drained and full of pent up nervous energy at the same time. Natasha opens her mouth, probably to ask him if he’s okay and he can’t—he doesn’t  _ want _ to do that right now, so he beats her to it.

“Wanna go a few rounds?”

She takes him in, considering, but eventually deciding to leave the questions for later. Steve is beyond grateful.

“And kick your ass? Let’s go, old man.”

It almost makes him smile.

###  **2021**

Steve leans back into the couch and pats his lap giving Olive the okay to jump onto the couch next to him. He huffs out a tired laugh when she digs her paws into his thighs before flopping down, her face buried in his lap. She lolls her tongue out, content when Steve runs a hand down her back, scratching it the way she likes. He takes a look around the office, he’s been coming here long enough to know that two of the paintings on the wall were replaced. 

When Ruth sits opposite him, her braids tied back and her legs crossed in front of her, Steve smiles at her. After almost two years, this is just as much a part of his routine as anything else. He lets Olive ground him, lets his fingers trail through her jet black fur before scratching behind her ears and smiles when she drools on him a little. Steve remembers her when she was just a puppy, and how much her presence had helped in him opening up. 

“How have you been this week, Steve?”

And so they begin.

***

Steve prefers to walk home after therapy, it helps to gather his thoughts. It’s kind of a long walk even by supersoldier standards, but it’s not like he gets tired or like he has plans so he walks anyway. Summer is upon them and the sun shines even when he leaves the office late into the evening, feeling slightly unsettled.

_ “Sometimes I feel like I’ve made no progress at all,” he says, pressing his lips together. “I didn’t get out of bed almost all day Wednesday.” _

_ Ruth looks at him carefully, and Steve fights the urge to somehow apologize for feeling that way. _

_ “What made you get out of bed?” _

_ “Nat was...out. Solo mission. She has these plants in the studio? They had to be watered, and you know, I didn’t want to kill them or something.” _

_ “Do you think you would’ve? Two years ago?” _

_ Steve wants to say yes emphatically, that of course, he would’ve. But to be honest...he’s not so sure anymore. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. _

_ “There you go. You can’t always measure progress, and you know that recovery is-” _

_ “Not linear, yes,” he finishes with a wan smile, although a little frustrated. He’s heard that one before. _

***

Steve picks up some supplies for their studio on his way home. It’s almost finished, and they’ve been using it for a few weeks now but once they put some of the art up, it’ll finally be finished the way they imagined it. He remembers six months ago when they first started converting the space into a big studio. There was plenty of natural light, perfect for Steve’s art and they ended up clearing out a wall to make it bigger, so there was space for Nat to do ballet. It was a bigger project than he’d anticipated but Steve had liked it, liked putting effort into something tangible, waking up at odd hours with Nat, the two of them working on painting the walls because neither of them could sleep. It was comforting to create something that felt like  _ theirs _ . He often chooses to spend his time there, finding it too easy to hole himself up and lose track of time if he isolates himself in his room. 

He heads for the studio and drops the frames off quietly, not wanting to bother Nat too much as she did her stretches. Once he’s showered off the summer heat and changed into something more comfortable, Steve starts to prepare the box.

***

The box is something Ruth had brought up early on, but something Steve had shut down, maybe a little too quickly. Today, he’d brought it up again, albeit hesitantly, and she’d seemed pleased to go over the details.

_ “What goes into the box?” _

_ “Whatever you want. Anything that nudges you in the right direction, makes you feel good, happier. That kinda thing.” _

_ “Not exactly spoiled for choice then,” he says dryly but raises his hands in surrender at her single raised eyebrow. _

_ Ruth smiles at him kindly. “Give it a try. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.” _

He thinks long and hard about it. He looks at the unassuming pale blue box and finds it daunting to fill it. Steve googles how to do it and then feels stupid about googling something like this. In the end, he starts with a snack, a reminder to eat. An iPod he’s had for a few years, with playlists he likes. He thinks that’s enough for now, but makes a mental note to keep adding things.

***

By the time it’s Thanksgiving, the box looks a lot less pristine than it did and the contents have changed frequently over the months. Steve adds his favorite sweater to it. It’s big, even for him, but it’s soft and it reminds him to relax his body, and make himself more comfortable. He looks at the photos he added in August, a ridiculous picture of Natasha and him with a hideous red, white and blue cake she’d brought out for his birthday, and one of him with Sameen after one of their group meetings. September had brought a coloring book, a set of expensive markers and his favorite brand of lavender tea. In October, Steve adds wrestling bandages as a reminder to not hurt himself and a photo from a few years ago from a party at Tony’s house. He’d debated adding it but ultimately, after a discussion with Ruth, he felt that they reminded him of all the opportunities he’s had to do good in this century. In a way, Steve thinks they remind him of the fact that no matter how hard it is, he deserves to be here,  _ now _ . That he belongs.

Now, Steve looks at the last item in his hand. Natasha had left them on his dresser with a note in her neat scrawl, “ _ consider this an early christmas present”  _ and a photograph Steve wasn’t sure he would ever see outside the Smithsonian. Bucky’s dog tags. A photo of the two of them, laughing. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to feel like he just got punched in the gut.

Steve thinks that the past year has maybe taught him more about loss than all the years before that. It’s been hard in so many ways, all the times he’s felt ( _ feels _ ) consumed by directionless grief, one that undermines him in the worst of ways and there’s not a thing he can do about it. He remembers shutting himself off those first few weeks. Not wanting to talk to anyone about it, trying to contain the hurt he felt inside him, feeling like it’s what he deserved. 

He also remembers opening up about it, first in therapy and then to Natasha. Recalls talking about Bucky in ways that made him want to curl up and cry. He likes to think he’s gotten better at it over the past year. Talking about Bucky and their shared past is never easy, no, but there’s so much no one else knows. Not the history books, not the Howlies, not the academics that had structured his life into a narrative they felt comfortable with. So he chooses to share that with Natasha. To, over time, learn to talk about Bucky in ways that didn’t hurt. Steve looks at the tags and the photo and places the photo into the box. The tags, he keeps with his own, in the closet. He can revisit those another time. For today, this was enough.

***

Steve wakes up from the nightmare, breathing harshly and in time for the first snowfall of the year. It had felt so  _ real _ right down to the part where everyone around him turned to dust. The compound is quiet, and he realizes he must’ve dozed off on the couch while reading. He feels off-kilter and irritable, annoyed at himself because he’d probably just ruined the possibility of getting any sleep tonight. Taking a few deep breaths, he throws on a jacket and a pair of boots over his warm socks before stepping out. Outside, the snow falls in soft tufts and Steve exhales shakily, deciding against staying. It looked peaceful, and he was warm in his jacket but Steve felt like the cold might seep into his bones anyway.

Taking a final look at it, he turns around to head back inside when he hears the car pull up. He waits for Natasha and she shoots him a quick smile before they huddle inside and she gets rid of her beanie.

“Oh. You changed your hair.”

“Felt like it was time,” she says while rubbing her palms together.

Steve takes it in, seeing the red make a comeback although the ends were still blonde. “Looks good, Nat.”

She smiles and hands him the bag of groceries. “Picked up some stuff while I was at it. You want anything to drink? I’d kill for a hot chocolate.”

Steve huffs out an amused laugh, his mood from earlier slowly dissipating. “Is that a subtle way of telling me to make it?”

“You said it, not me,” she says, leading them into the kitchen and hopping up on the countertop. Her usual spot. Because they do this enough that she has one. It’s more than what Steve would’ve envisioned for himself.

The silence is amicable while Natasha skims through her phone and he stirs the milk slowly. He lets it all mix together before pouring huge mugs for the two of them. Natasha adds a ridiculous amount of marshmallows and Steve feels inexplicably fond as they head to the couch.

She curls up with her cold feet under his thighs immediately and Steve turns to look at her. “Any word on Clint?”

Her smile slips and Steve wishes he hadn’t asked. “Not yet, Rhodey’s still keeping an eye out. Doesn’t want to be found, I guess. Guess who taught him that,” she says wryly.

Steve holds her gaze. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m proud of you, you know that right? Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

She smiles at him, and he squeezes her ankle absently. There’s a lot Steve doesn’t know about her yet. He likes to think he knows more than most. Over the years, they’ve slowly opened up but he also knows how much she values her privacy. It’s not something that bothers him, as long as she knows he’s here to listen if she ever wants to talk about it. He’s about to ask if she wants to put on the TV when she sets her mug down and looks more nervous than he’s ever seen her.

“Hey, Steve?”

He looks at her over his mug prompting her to go on before setting his mug down and turning towards her.

“I ever tell you about when Clint and I were in Budapest?”

Steve smiles softly at her. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard that one.” 

***

A few hours later when their conversation veers off into less painful territories, Natasha gets up to make some tea while he waits on the couch, channel surfing mindlessly. He wants to help, he realizes. Steve isn’t sure where the thought comes from, but once it’s there he finds it hard to ignore it. He’s brought out of it when Natasha places a steaming mug in front of him. Steve wraps his palms around it and takes a careful sip while gathering his thoughts. In the end, once he’s made the decision it seems easy, almost.

“I want to help,” he says, apropos of nothing and huffs a laugh at Nat’s quizzical eyebrow.

“I want to help. With Clint—and with the others, whatever you need. I want back in.”

To her credit, Natasha doesn’t look too surprised and Steve wonders if he’d been hurtling towards this in some way or the other for a while now.

“Okay, yeah, of course.”

“That easy?”

She smiles at him although it’s grim. “We need all the help we can get, to be honest. I mean—I’m not trying to make you feel guilty,” she finishes.

Steve feels a stab of guilt anyway, but tries to level with the feeling. He knows he wasn’t in the best place to do anything, and that taking this necessary time off had been instrumental in his ongoing recovery, but it was still a luxury that not many were able to afford and it leaves him unsettled.

“Yeah, I just. I can’t look the other way anymore.”

“I wouldn’t call your recovery  _ looking the other way _ , Steve,” she says dryly. “But welcome back. I’ll debrief you tomorrow morning and we can figure out the rest.”

***

In the morning, Natasha drops a binder in front of him with notes on every aspect of their operations. It’s entirely too detailed to have been put together after last night and Steve is struck again, by her perceptiveness.

“You knew I’d be back,” he says, flipping through it.

She sits on the chair opposite him and passes him a set of comms. “I hoped. Well, that and I know you, Steve.”

Steve feels absurdly nervous, like he’s suddenly going to be terrible at this, or that he’s going to freak out and have an episode, but underneath all of that, there’s a keen sense of  _ this is right _ unfurling in his chest. An echo of how he’d felt before, someone with purpose, someone who wanted to do the right thing no matter how difficult it was. 

Steve exhales, and puts the comms on.

###  **2022**

Steve takes a careful sip of his coffee watching the rain pour outside. Tomorrow, he turns 34, or 104, depending on how you look at it. Steve feels the familiar twinge that comes with missing his loved ones. The past year and a half felt like he was finally finding his footing after the Blip. Their loss never quite felt like it would stop hurting, but Steve thinks he gets better at harboring it every year.  _ It’s a terrible fucking thing to become good at _ , he thinks, but it is what it is. 

Last year, they’d celebrated his birthday for the first time in years. Celebrated is a strong word, it was mostly him and Natasha and a frightfully ugly cake, trying to pretend things were at least semi-normal, but Steve had been grateful. It’d been nice to get out of their routine, to forget about the reality of their lives for a second. This year, Natasha had mentioned wanting to see fireworks and Steve had thought,  _ why the fuck not _ , so that was their plan for tomorrow.

Sameen and Malcolm sit down opposite him, coffees and scones in hand. Lately, they’d taken to going out once in a while for a bite or just coffee after group meetings. The last time they’d done this Natasha had joined them and Steve thinks they’d both surprised themselves by having fun. He’d have to bring her again sometime. 

He feels a little lost in his thoughts today, a little adrift, so he’s content to listen while Malcolm talks about a disastrous date he’d been on, smiling in spite of himself at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. The conversation winds down while they finish eating. Outside, it’s stopped raining and Steve turns his gaze inwards, to their table. Eventually, conversation dwindles, Sameen has to pick Daniel up from practice and they make their way out of the little cafe. They’re about to head off in different directions when Sameen presses something into his hands.

Steve gives her a questioning glance before opening the envelope. Inside, there is a birthday card clearly made by Daniel, wishing him a happy birthday in his squiggly handwriting. For a second, panic threatens to overwhelm Steve because he’d never told them and how did they know but he takes a look at identical, understanding smiles on both Sameen and Malcolm and swallows around a lump in his throat.

“You knew? All this time?”

Sameen shakes her head. “Not the whole time, but we put it together last year. The beard only does so much, you know,” she teases.

Steve feels a little like he’s been flayed open because they  _ know _ which means  _ they know about Bucky _ but he also feels relieved and that’s what he chooses to focus on. They’re his friends. People who care about him. People who don’t want to hurt him or use this information for anything selfish.

“Sorry I couldn’t—”

Malcolm cuts him off. “You don’t have to apologize, man. We get it. We’re here for you.”

He’s struck by the sudden realization that these are his first real friends after—well, after Sam. They’re not S.H.I.E.L.D, they’re not a part of his world, these are just people he connected with, on his own, over shared life experiences. It’s a weird thing to come to terms with but Steve manages to thank them both with the promise of seeing them next week. If his voice sounds a little thick with emotion, it’s no one’s business but his.

***

The next night finds him and Natasha perched over a rooftop, watching the fireworks go off. In what he supposes is going to become tradition, Natasha had brought in a truly ugly lime green cake in the afternoon. Once the fondant was peeled away, the cake itself was delicious but Steve feels like the fluorescent green is burned behind his eyelids. Now, he clinks his beer against Natasha’s before they take a swig. For the most part today, he’s managed to stay present, to not delve into his guilt that somehow always lurks around for him to find.

He watches as the sky is filled with sparks, and finishes the rest of his beer. 

“When we were kids—Bucky and I,” he explains, and watches Natasha look at him, giving him her full attention.

He continues, grateful. “When we were kids, they’d light up fireworks on the fourth of July. Bucky, he always said they were for me. That the whole city was celebrating my birthday. I never had too many presents so I suppose it was born out of just making me feel better, but it—it became a thing, you know? He’d say it every year. Even when we grew older, when I knew that it wasn’t true.”

He doesn’t know what else to say, he’s filled with an abrupt but swift and all-consuming longing for his best friend. When it’s clear he isn’t going to continue, Natasha sets her bottle down and tucks herself into his side. Steve leans his head on hers, grateful.

“You think you’ll ever love anyone else like this?”

Steve thinks  _ no I won’t _ . He thinks about shared apartments and freezing nights, about presents wrapped in old newspapers, about bloody fists and the delicate touch of someone bandaging them. Now that he knows, he thinks every memory is tinged with his feelings for Bucky; now, then, always. 

Steve takes a fortifying breath. “I don’t know. It’s like—my memory is perfect, you know? I haven’t forgotten anything—everything is fresh. Even now. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s fair to me to live like this, and other times I think that if nothing about Bucky ever fades, I’ll never be able to give all of me in a relationship and that just seems unfair to the other person.”

“You’ve thought about this,” she murmurs.

“I’ve been known to do that, once or twice.”

Against him, Natasha huffs out a laugh. “Don’t make a habit of it,” and then, “Happy birthday, Steve.”

Steve opens another bottle and hands it to her. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Sometimes I think that maybe, if things were different I’d—with Sam. I don’t know, I think I’d have asked him out,” she mutters, reticent, and very unlike her. 

He thinks of the starry-eyed, gap-toothed grin on Sam’s face every time Natasha so much as talked and huffs fondly. “I think he’d have liked that.”

She laughs, but it’s a hollow thing. “I think the worst part is, I knew that. Too late now, I guess.”

Steve swaps her empty beer for a new one. “As the world’s leading authority on  _ late _ , I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. Mostly I just want us to be happy.”

“I think we’re getting there,” he says, and surprises himself when it doesn’t feel like a lie, stumbling out of him like that. 

Natasha pulls back. “Look at us, being emotionally healthy, talking about our feelings and shit.”

The laugh bubbles out of him, sudden and unbridled. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

They head back when the fireworks are over and when Steve enters his room, he looks around and thinks that maybe he’d never have the life that he wants with Bucky or with anyone else, but this is still more of a life than three years ago, and maybe that’s enough.

***

Steve circles back to the compound, slowing down and wiping the sweat on his brow over his sleeve. A few stray leaves crunch under his feet as he walks towards the door. Fall is beautiful in upstate New York and his hands itch for a sketchbook, maybe some watercolors. He’s spent the better part of the day sparring, ending the workout with a run. Now that it’s almost noon, he feels his stomach rumble and the last of the disquiet he’d woken up with, dissipate.

He heads straight into the shower, and then into the kitchen. Steve stares at the fridge for a few minutes before deciding to give in and eat the biryani Sameen had sent him back with after their group meeting, the day before. He’d smiled sheepishly at the truly enormous container when it was handed to him, but now that he sets some aside for Natasha and looks at what’s left, he’s grateful. He’s probably going to finish all of it given how hungry he is.

Lunch leaves him feeling full and he stretches out on the couch feeling pleasantly sore from all the activity. The feeling will fade as quickly as it’d come, but Steve pushes his feet forward and feels the twinge in his hamstrings anyway, enjoying the stretch. He picks up his well-loved copy of The Hobbit from the table and curls up on his side.

The past week had been busier than he’d expected. Lately, they’ve taken up volunteering and as exhausting as it is, Steve likes it, likes feeling useful in a way that doesn’t involve war and fighting. He thinks he’s still leagues away from joining Rhodey or any of the others for missions, the thought fills him with dread; but this, this he can do.

He’s only a couple of chapters into the book when his phone alerts him about a message from Rhodey. Steve heaves himself off the couch and makes his way to the control room. A few short minutes later, Rhodey, or well, a holographic projection of Rhodey, is in front of him. 

Rhodey looks tired but more upbeat than usual. Steve is hopeful. “Cap, I found him.”

It takes a minute for that to sink in. “You did? And he’s—he’s okay?”

“Okay is relative,” Rhodey sighs. “He’s alive and unharmed, if that’s what you meant,” he adds, smiling wryly.

Steve exhales, relieved. “That’s great, Rhodey. You think he’s ready to come home?”

“I don’t know, Cap. I tried talking to him, he’s pretty adamant about staying away. He’s been looking at leads too, to see if—y’know,” Rhodey shrugs, and Steve knows what it means— _ if they can reverse it _ .

“You think I should talk to him? Where’d you find him anyway?”

“I’m seeing him tomorrow, in person. Maybe just stay around in case you need to speak to him. And uh, Budapest.”

“Budapest.”

“Budapest.”

“That’s the first place Nat looked, I can’t believe she missed him.”

“He knew where not to hide, they’ve been at this longer than either of us.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Fair enough. Alright, thank you. Keep us in the loop and let me know if I need to be there? And maybe—maybe don’t tell Nat just yet, I’ll talk to her.”

“Copy. I’ll update you tomorrow, Steve,” he says, before signing off.

Steve tries to be cautiously optimistic. It’s only three weeks until Christmas and he hopes this works out for everyone.

***

Christmas day dawns bright and early, not that Steve had gotten any sleep. He steps outside and sits on the porch, the cold waking him up from the foggy, vaguely frustrated state of mind he’d found himself in all last night. The coffee warms him from the inside and Steve takes another perfectly bitter sip, relishing the warmth. It’s still early so he decides against waking Natasha up.

This year, they’d gotten a small, fake tree and covered it in lights and ornaments before putting their presents for each other around it. It didn’t look like much, but it was the first time they’d decided to get a tree in the past few years and it was small, but it brightened up the corner of their living room. Steve loved looking at it, it was a reminder of their progress, hard as it may have been. Maybe next year they’d get a real one.

For his present this year, Steve had carefully wrapped a big box with a handful of smaller gifts in it. A custom-made bar of apricot flavored soap, a bubble bath, a fleece throw for their couch. A pair of flannel pajamas with cats wearing Christmas sweaters, a pack of the warmest, softest socks. Three candles and four kinds of teas including the loose-leaf one that is somehow only available in a hipster tea shop in Williamsburg. Softness, warmth, healing. Things Steve wishes their lives have more of, this coming year. He’d handpainted the wrapping paper, a heavyweight paper with watercolor ballerinas. He had no doubt Natasha knew most of her presents, neither of them had been particularly subtle about hiding the gifts. He’s certain he saw a set of expensive acrylics in her shopping bag that he suspects he might see today. The surprise wasn’t the point of their gifts anyway.

Steve finishes the last of his coffee and heads inside, feeling decidedly less groggy and with a mind to wake Natasha up if she wasn’t up already.

***

Later that night, he’s organizing the desk of their control room, putting away a few scattered files while Natasha queues up a truly impressive Christmas movie marathon and makes popcorn for the two of them. Steve feels tired given that he’d barely slept last night, but he closes the door to the control room behind him anyway, heads to the couch and under their new fleece throw.

They’ve only just hit play on the first movie when the security system alerts them of someone at the front door. Steve smiles to himself as Natasha gets up in one fluid motion, her body language transforming into something more alert, deadly, even. Steve follows her at a distance while he opens the door through his phone. A week ago, Clint had reached out, finally ready to come home, having talked to both Rhodey and Steve. He’d said he needed a few days to wind things up and said he’d reach out when he was ready. This afternoon, Steve had heard from him again.

Steve stands next to Natasha as the door opens and Clint steps inside. For a second, Natasha is frozen, her lips pursed into a thin line, eyes threatening to spill. Steve gives Clint a quick hug, slapping his back, wanting to give Natasha a minute.

“Welcome back, pal,” he smiles, taking in Clint’s tired eyes and defeated posture.

He gets a weak, but genuine smile in return. “Thanks, Steve.”

Clint turns to Natasha, his smile wobbly. “I’m sorry—my family—I couldn’t—”

Natasha wraps him in a fierce hug, cutting him off. “They were my family too.  _ You _ were my family too,” she murmurs.

“I know—I’m so sorry.”

Steve feels his eyes sting and his heart feels heavy, grief over Clint’s family warring with his happiness for Natasha, all at once.

Natasha pulls back and looks at Clint for a second. “What the fuck did you do with your hair?”

Clint huffs out a watery laugh and Steve follows suit, taking in the questionable mohawk. They walk inside and Steve is about to head back to his room, wanting to give them some space. Natasha stops him and levels him with a glare that would’ve scared him a few years ago but one that he now knows is mostly in jest.

“Although I’m super annoyed you were able to keep this from me, thank you,” she finishes sincerely, and Steve wraps his arms around her in a warm hug.

“Learnt a thing or two from you about secrets,” he teases and hears her chuckle softly.

“Raincheck on the movie marathon?”

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay? And don’t be too hard on him, Nat.”

“I—yeah, you’re right. ‘Night, Steve.”

He smiles at her, tired but not lacking in warmth. “‘Night.”

###  **2023**

Steve comes home to an empty apartment and starts putting their groceries away. Bucky was probably still in therapy and Steve makes a mental note to order takeout in a little bit. Three weeks ago Bucky had moved in after, well, everything. Hell, he’d even been the braver of the two of them and said  _ I love you _ , something Steve was still getting used to. Beyond that though, it hadn’t been nearly as easy as Steve might’ve hoped. Five years is a long time to live without someone, it’s longer than the time Steve had spent before, and this time, things were so different. So much had changed.  _ Steve _ had changed.

Still, there’s not a thing Steve would trade, no matter how hard it is. They’ve decided to take it slow and so far, it’s been glacial. Sometimes he wants to just—get over himself, be the person, the partner Bucky deserves. But to be honest, he’s grateful for the slow pace they’ve set for themselves, it gives them room to have open conversations about things he might’ve never talked about five years ago. He likes to think Bucky is grateful too, they’ve been through so much, far more than anyone should ever have to, but on his worst days, he can’t help but think he’s the one holding this relationship back.

Steve shakes that train of thought away, and folds their grocery bags, tucking them into the organizer hanging off the fridge. He spares a fleeting glance at Bucky’s room, but the door is locked, much like it always is, unless they’re hanging out on the couch or when Bucky cooks. He wonders idly if tomorrow is a good day to check out the coffee shop they’ve been meaning to. It’ll be their fifth date. God, he’s  _ dating _ Bucky. It somehow sounds too trivial a word for what they have, but the thought fills him with warmth anyway.

He loves it, loves that they get to do this now. Four nights ago, when they were both having trouble sleeping, Bucky had said  _ fuck it, let’s go out _ and so they had, for coffee. On their way home, Bucky had slipped his hand into Steve, warm and a tiny bit hesitant. Steve remembers turning red and then turning redder because Bucky had huffed out a fond laugh. But this was Bucky, and Steve knew and he knew that Bucky knew that neither of them had “any chill” as Malcolm called it.

Steve orders food for the two of them and heads towards his room to grab a shower.

Later, when Steve is spread out on the couch, stomach full, he hears the elevator ding on their floor and knows Bucky is home. He’d gotten a text from Bucky earlier, a terse  _ going for a walk to clear my head, don’t wait up for dinner _ . Living with Bucky is still something he’s getting used to, especially now that he’d unknowingly gotten used to spending most of his time on his own terms or with Natasha. Still, it’s something he looks forward to learning. All the little quirks, the ins and outs you only know after intimately sharing space with someone. It’s still a little surreal that he gets to have this.

Bucky steps in and shrugs his coat off and then his shoes. His hair is in a loose bun and Steve feels an indescribable fondness that turns his insides to mush. He sets his book aside. “Hey, Buck.”

“Hey,” Bucky says, before making his way to the kitchen for water. He looks worn out and Steve wants very much to wrap him in his arms, but sometimes Bucky doesn’t like being touched. Sometimes, neither does Steve and although that has yet to happen, it's just a reminder of one more thing that’s changed between them. Steve remembers curling up against Bucky when he was sick, easy as anything. Now, they’re careful, sometimes tiptoeing around each other and sometimes Steve thinks maybe he’s changed too much in the five years. He’s not the Steve that Bucky knew, anymore. Not the Steve Bucky fell in love with, five years ago.

Steve knows that this too is something they will end up addressing eventually, this sort-of uneven footing they’ve found each other in. He doesn’t have long to dwell on it though, because Bucky returns with his dinner heated up and a glass of water. He sets the plate on the coffee table and assesses their couch situation. Steve smiles indulgently, he knows he’s taking up the entire couch. He sets his book aside and gets up, running a hand through his flattened hair. 

Bucky sits next to him and takes a moment before seemingly deciding something. Steve waits patiently while Bucky turns towards him and their knees knock. Steve thinks about that little point of contact for longer than he cares to admit. He looks right back at Bucky, curious and waiting, but Bucky just smiles at him. Gentle, soft, loving. It makes Steve want to squirm where he’s sitting.

“I love you, Steve.”

Steve smiles, bright and sunny if a little confused. He’d thought Bucky maybe wanted to say something else. “I love you too, Bucky.”

“I just—you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

He feels his smile dim before it actually happens, and his heart thudding painfully against his chest. It’s not that he’s been  _ hiding _ , he  _ has _ been doing better, fewer nightmares, no big episodes, and so it hasn’t come up. But Steve thinks about all the empty days and nights he let pass by, just lying there, immobile, pinned down by something he couldn’t see. He thinks of loss, and of grief and how he’d clawed his way out slowly but surely from under them. Steve remembers night after sleepless night, an endless loop of his failures tormenting him relentlessly, all the lives lost, all the people he couldn’t save. Bucky isn’t stupid, of course he knows, but they haven’t  _ talked _ about it.

Steve looks up when Bucky takes his hands into his own, trying not to crumble at the way Bucky’s thumb rubs circles over his palms. “I’m not—I’m doing better, I promise,” he says, swallowing roughly.

“I know you are, and I’m so proud of you, Stevie. But I know it wasn’t easy. And I know you don’t like talkin’ about it sometimes and I just—I just want you to know you can talk about it.”

“I know.” He nods, intertwining his fingers with Bucky’s, who squeezes back.

“Okay,” he replies easily. “And I—I’m going to do better at it too, I promise.”

Steve nods again, feeling a little overwhelmed when he answers with a hushed  _ okay _ .

Bucky disentangles his fingers, and Steve misses the touch. They turn to the TV, but he doesn’t move further away and neither does Bucky, so they sit there, the long lines of their bodies touching. Steve takes in the feeling of sitting this close and wants to seek it out, wants to curl up under Bucky’s comfortable weight, forget about things for a while. But Bucky is wolfing down his dinner and there’s a documentary playing, and so Steve sits there, silently taking in the proximity, soaking up the warmth of Bucky’s body, the way he smells just the same. A little like fall, fresh and pine-like, but a lot like home.

Twenty minutes into the documentary, Bucky finishes his dinner and stretches out, his arm around Steve. Steve shuffles closer, resting his head on the offered shoulder, breath escaping in a sigh. Forty-five minutes into it, Bucky’s fingers scratch his scalp idly. Just, slow, sure fingers combing through his shaggy hair. Steve feels it, he can  _ taste  _ it, as the feeling crawls it’s way up to his throat, ugly and bitter with all the loneliness and the things he’s never said out loud.

He sits up suddenly, needing to get out of there, and startles Bucky. Steve looks at him, he looks confused and concerned and Steve—well he just needs a little space is all.

“Sorry, I—I need a minute,” he says, moving away.

“Steve, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Buck. I just, I need a minute, please.”

“Is this about earlier? I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not you, I promise I’m—” Steve cuts himself off, not knowing what to say. He feels the way his heart is lodged somewhere in his throat, the way his palms feel clammy, his breaths struggling to stay effortless. He closes his eyes and presses his palms into the couch, letting the sensation ground him a little.

He breathes in deep, once and then again, and feels it go down easier the second time. Steve opens his eyes to find Bucky looking at him, looking stricken. 

Bucky looks at him for a long moment. “Can I touch you?”

Steve feels his body tense up. “I—give me a minute,” he whispers and rubs his fingers into his eyes before burying his face in his palms, suddenly exhausted. He doesn’t know how to explain it, is the thing.

After what feels like hours, he turns to Bucky. “I’m okay. Sorry I freaked out on you like that, I—”

“Don’t apologize,” Bucky says, and Steve nods.

“Yeah.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Steve laughs wanly. “Not particularly, no.”

Bucky swallows and nods. “Right. Um, was it something I did? I mean, just so I don’t do it again—”

“No, I got scared.” It rips out of him with an intensity that takes him by surprise. Steve looks down at his clasped hands and exhales harshly. “I got scared,” he repeats. “We were just—it was perfect, Buck. We were sitting and I—I can’t lose you again.” It’s disjointed, but Bucky seems to get it anyway, the way he softens and looks at Steve.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Something about the way he says it makes Steve’s eyes sting. It’s so infuriating. He’s  _ here _ , they  _ made it _ , and yet. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“Nothing about the way you feel is stupid,” Bucky says and it almost makes Steve smile, the therapy talk. “Steve, look at me, honey.”

And so Steve does, red eyes and all. Bucky reaches out but then seems to think better of it and pulls back. Steve covers the cool metal of Bucky’s palm with his own. “Please,” he whispers, hoping it comes across.

Bucky pulls Steve towards himself, and Steve goes willingly, burying his face in Bucky’s neck, eyes stinging. He feels the shiver across his body when Bucky runs his palm down Steve’s back, leaving pockets of heat where he touches. Steve feels the moisture from his eyes spill onto his cheeks when Bucky presses a swift kiss against his temple.

“I’m here, Steve.  _ We’re  _ here, sweetheart. Not goin’ anywhere,” he says roughly and Steve knows he’s close to crying too.

Steve kisses him where his lips meet Bucky’s neck. “I know that. I  _ know _ , I promise.”

“Then you gotta talk about it, Stevie. You can’t—you can’t bottle it up.”

Bucky sounds pained and Steve takes an unsteady breath before pulling back to look at him. He looks like how Steve feels. Steve cups his face in shaky hands and leans in to kiss Bucky. He keeps it soft, so does Bucky, and Steve hopes that some of what he’s feeling comes across. Bucky pulls back briefly before kissing Steve again, once, twice, three times because he can. Fleeting kisses across his face, trembling kisses over his closed eyes, and it’s so much. Steve feels a fresh wave of tears gathering and wipes them with the back of his hand. Bucky’s palm is warm where it cups his face and Steve curls his fingers around Bucky’s wrist.

“I’ve been okay, I really have, Buck. I’m not—I’m not keeping this from you, I—you know that, right?” Bucky nods, and Steve presses a kiss to his wrist before he continues.

“I’m not hiding anything, but you have to know, I—I got used to living without you,” he finishes, voice breaking. “It was so hard every step of the way and I hated it and I was so, so  _ angry _ , so unhappy, Bucky—I just. I shut down. I didn’t know how to deal with it, until I did. And I thought, if this is as good as it gets, that’s okay. I was dealing with it, and then you—everyone came back. And we’re here, you love me, I love  _ you _ , but I can’t—I can’t do that again, I can’t.”

He wipes the tears streaking their way across Bucky’s cheeks, and god, they’re a pair, having a breakdown like this. Steve looks at him for long moments while they take that in. Bucky sniffles and reaches across to brush Steve’s hair from his forehead. It’s quiet, and Steve takes in a deep breath and then another, feeling lighter. He hadn’t meant to burden Bucky with this, not when things were finally going their way, but god, he was—he was  _ tired _ . Tired of it all, tired of carrying this weight with him everywhere he went.

Bucky breaks the silence first. “I’m not going anywhere, Steve. I—I don’t know what to say to make this better,” he says helplessly, and Steve can hear the anguish in his voice.

Steve swallows around the lump in his throat. “I know, and there’s nothing you  _ can  _ say. It’s just a matter of time, I guess. You being here, helps. I love you,” he says. “I love you so much.”

“I love  _ you _ . You—promise me you’ll tell me if things are bad. Please,” he whispers, and Steve nods, blinking back tears.

Steve smiles wryly. “God, look at us.”

Bucky huffs out a small laugh and pulls Steve closer still, till they’re nose to nose. “Nothing that can’t be fixed,” he says, with more confidence than Steve would’ve put in himself.

“No, I guess not,” he says, punctuating it with a kiss. “I’m gonna be okay, I promise.”

“I know that. You got no idea how strong you are, sweetheart. You were okay without me and you’ll be more than okay again. Just don’t want you to do it alone, is all.”

_ Oh _ . Put like that, Steve doesn’t know what to say in return. “Didn’t  _ feel _ strong,” he says dryly. “Mostly just wanted you back.”

“You got me.” Bucky kisses him then, like he’s helpless not to, and Steve feels it all the way in his bones, mending his frayed nerves. 

He had a long way to go,  _ they _ had a long way to go, but they were here. He has this, a life with the man he’s been in love with for longer than he’d care to admit. A life where he’s Bucky’s  _ honey _ and  _ sweetheart _ , a life far more than anything he’d ever dared to dream of.

“You got me too, Buck,” he murmurs against Bucky’s lips when he pulls back. Steve feels Bucky’s smile rather than sees it and he can’t help but smile back, small, but genuine. It’s a long road to being okay, but he knows they will be.


	2. Epilogue

When Bucky slowly swims to consciousness, the sun is high up, shining on Steve’s middle from the gap in their blackout curtains. Steve is turned away from him, but even like this, Bucky can tell he’s relaxed, his body holding none of that rigidity he’d slowly grown out of. Bucky shuffles closer and buries his face in the nape of Steve’s neck, wrapping an arm around him. Steve smells like his shower gel, with a barely-there sweetness to it from some hipster bath product that Natasha had gifted them and one that Bucky secretly loves. He’s wearing different clothes too, and Bucky gathers that Steve’s already been on his run, probably taken Luna out after feeding her too, which explains why they hadn’t been woken up by an insistent ninety-pound golden retriever that neither of them can resist.

Bucky presses a chaste kiss and is content to lie there, basking in the warmth of their covers and his closeness to Steve, who stirs in his hold, still half-asleep. He stays like that for long moments, slowly waking up, and these are Bucky’s favorite mornings. Ones where they’re both just a little bit lazy, after a long night of sleep and a mostly-empty day ahead. He’s brought out of it when he feels the delicate press of Steve’s lips on his metal knuckles. Bucky wiggles his fingers a little and hears Steve huff out a fond laugh when the plates whir, making a sound in their otherwise quiet bedroom. 

He smiles against the back of Steve’s neck. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Steve murmurs, before turning around and facing Bucky, looking sleep-warm and rumpled.

He leans in and kisses Steve, smiling into it. Steve’s lips are soft and pillowy and he sighs into the kiss. Steve is warm, so warm that Bucky wants to curl up and never leave. “You were up early today, I didn’t even hear you,” he says, pulling back and stifling a yawn.

“Don’t know, I just woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep, so I went for a run with Luna.”

Bucky nods and crowds into Steve who’s happy to wrap an arm around him. He drifts in and out of wakefulness, not really sleeping, but not really awake either and waits for the inevitable ruckus on their bed once Luna figures out they’re up. Bucky wishes at least one of them had the good sense not to completely spoil her, but they’re terrible at saying no.

He doesn’t have to wait long, he can hear the sound of her nails against the floor when she gets up from under the dining table. She quiets down when she enters their bedroom curiously, and Steve smiles, eyes closed because they can hear her pant anyway. Bucky knows she’s standing at the edge of the bed and sighs internally before tapping his hand on the bed, her signal to come up.

Steve snickers. “You are  _ so _ bad at this. We said we were gonna try not to.”

Luna jumps up and wriggles into Steve’s space, flopping down on him after sniffing him all over and Bucky can’t help but smile.

“ _ You _ try saying no to that, she just stands there, near the bed. I can’t do it,” he replies laughing when she comes to him and licks a big stripe over his cheek.

Steve scratches her back till she settles down, and Bucky knows that they can keep trying but neither of them is going to succeed because they dote on her too much. They adopted Luna a few months ago, when she was an injured puppy, weak and a little slow, but Steve had looked at her and Bucky had looked at Steve and knew that she was coming home with them. Few months in a good home had done her wonders and here they were.

Bucky is brought out of it when he hears Steve coo, “Who’s a good girl, yes you  _ are _ !” 

Luna looks delighted, nipping affectionately at Steve, and Bucky sits up, running a hand through his hair, his heart full.

***

By the time Bucky is out of his shower, Steve has the coffee ready and he takes a greedy sip from his steaming mug. He joins Steve at the table, setting his mug down before grabbing the paper to do the crossword. Steve smiles at him, small but indulgent and loving, before going back to his sketchbook. Bucky ties his hair up and settles in. Some days, breakfast is quick, when one or both of them have other commitments. They often volunteer and not always together, so it’s a hastily put together breakfast and a quick walk for Luna, before they kiss each other goodbye and head off. Bucky loves that too, because it means he gets to come home to Steve after a long day. He also loves this, when they spend most of their morning like this, when everything in their little bubble is quiet and peaceful. 

“Summer cocktail that sometimes has a strawberry garnish?”

Steve’s pencil stops as he thinks about it. “Uh, daiquiri?”

“It’s a bigger word,” Bucky says, frowning.

“Try frozen daiquiri?”

That fits. Bucky smiles, satisfied. “Have you ever had one?”

“No I don’t think so,” Steve says after a beat.

“We should try it.”

Steve nods and tangles their feet together. “Okay, Buck.” He sounds quietly pleased, the way he often does when they talk about trying new things and it makes Bucky’s chest go tight, the way it’s always tinged with a little bit of surprise, still. That they get to do this. Live this life.

Bucky fills in “omg” for  _ texters exclamation _ . Steve goes back to his drawing, Luna at their feet, lazily stretched under a sunlit spot.

***

It’s late into the afternoon when Bucky heats up some leftovers from the night before. They eat in silence, Steve is reading one of his textbooks for an online course and Bucky is content to sit there, absentmindedly flipping through a travel book he’d bought on a whim. He finishes his lunch first, so he gets moving, leaving Steve at the table with a kiss on his cheek and a reminder to eat up before the food gets cold. Steve smiles at him, squeezing his hand once, before getting back to the textbook. 

Bucky moves around the kitchen, rinsing dishes and loading the dishwasher as he goes. He takes a look at their fridge, and they have everything for tonight except alcohol. He makes a mental note to stock up on some beer and maybe a few extra bags of chips. Natasha was in charge of wine, and Malcolm was in charge of the board game of the week. Bucky was in charge of making loaded nachos and Steve’s pies were ready to go, for dessert. They’d taken to doing this twice a month, more times if things worked out for everyone. It felt good, normal, even. Bucky had loved meeting Steve’s friends. They were proof that Steve had a life before this, and their biweekly board game night was Malcolm’s idea. Between them, only Sam, Maria, Malcolm and Sameen had board game experience but it’d only taken a month or two before the rest of them caught up.

Everything about it was ruthlessly competitive, and although maybe Sam would prefer if their games of Monopoly didn’t turn into excited shouting matches, Bucky wouldn’t trade it for the world. Tonight, it was just going to be Natasha, Sam, Malcolm and Sameen. Maria was away on a mission. Thor hadn’t been able to make it for the last few weeks but he’d sent a case of some Asgardian mead that to Bucky’s delight, did a great job of getting them drunk despite the superserum. Sometimes it was enough to fool them into thinking they led a normal life, but then again, with Steve retiring for good, Bucky thinks this is as normal as it was ever going to get.

He’s done making a list of what they need to pick up from the store when Steve finds him in the kitchen, done with his reading.

“Hey Buck,” he says, leaning against the fridge. Bucky looks at his relaxed posture and the crows feet near his eyes and thinks about the little black box hidden in his closet. Soon. He just has to find the right moment.

Bucky smiles back, easy as anything. “Hey sweetheart.” He grabs his phone and shoves it into his pocket. “You ready to hit the store?”

Steve nods, pleased. “Yeah got done with my reading, I’m all yours now.”

_ All yours _ . It fills Bucky up with warmth every time. Steve grabs Luna’s leash while Bucky pockets their keys.

***

Steve’s in the shower and Bucky is just about done setting out the food when Sam and Natasha arrive, followed quickly by Sameen and Malcolm. He ushers them over  _ hellos _ and  _ how’ve you beens _ , lets himself be hugged, and follows them into the kitchen. Luna wags her tail, excited with all the activity and all the belly rubs. Natasha pours some of her wine for all of them before they head back to the living room.

Steve joins them soon enough, his face splitting into a grin as he envelopes Natasha in a bear hug, and then Sam. Bucky watches Natasha smile back warmly and wonders how he’d ever thought of her as distant. But then again, the past five years had changed a lot for them. Steve and Natasha especially. Even now, sometimes they’re the only ones who understand each other about certain things. Shared life experience, Steve calls it. Bucky is just happy he had Natasha all that time. And that Natasha had him. 

“I’m gonna get some water, anyone need anything?”

They don’t, so Steve heads back into the kitchen. Bucky sits back on their couch, sipping on the wine. Malcolm takes the game out, setting it up, catching up with Sam about the football game over the weekend. Beside him, Sameen is talking to Natasha even as she fixes a loose end from her hijab. Steve brings back a coke for her, and she takes it gratefully. Bucky makes space, scooting in when Steve sits next to him squeezing his knee before settling in, their sides touching. 

Malcolm pulls out the instructions. “Are we ready?”

***

Three hours, two plates of Nachos and copious amounts of alcohol later, they take a break. Steve and Natasha’s not-so-secret alliance had nearly ripped the game apart anyway. Bucky wanted to laugh at how ridiculous they were, taking this so seriously but he was hardly different, he thinks, returning Sameen’s wink.  _ His  _ alliances were subtle unlike Steve’s, thank you very much.

Natasha makes her way back to Sam, leaning into him slightly which is the only proof Bucky has that she’s drunk at all. Sameen passes him a glass of water and he gulps it down, his head a little fuzzy now that Steve and him had opened a bottle of the mead. Steve comes back from the restroom and Bucky curls up into him, half-listening as he talks to Sameen. Malcolm and Sam are still on about the damn football game, and Bucky meets Natasha’s eyes for a second as they share a fond smile.

He looks at Luna, she’s at Steve’s feet, eyes shut, and Bucky bends to scratch the back of her ear affectionately. The movement makes Steve look at him, and he looks like how Bucky feels. A little drunk, but warm and happy. The dry press of lips on his cheek brings him out of his head.

“You doin’ okay?”

Bucky nods at Steve, smiling. “I’m good.” Steve curls an arm around him and Bucky leans into it. “Warm,” he adds, and Steve smiles quietly, pleased.

***

It’s late when they finish the game and Steve brings out slices of pie with vanilla ice-cream. Either he’s drunk as fuck, or the pie is just That Good. Bucky thinks it’s both, Steve’s really taken to baking this past year. Sameen and Malcolm are the first to leave, they’d arrived together and Sameen can drop him home. Bucky waves goodbye as they hug Steve. Steve sends them off with leftover pie, packing extra for Sameen’s son. It makes Bucky smile; Steve loves Daniel.

Both Sam and Natasha are entirely too drunk to drive home, as is the case most times they have game night. They take the guest room, and they know where everything is anyway, so Bucky heads back to their bedroom, while Steve makes sure they’re settled. He’d see them in the morning over a greasy breakfast and some coffee. Right now, he sips on water intermittently, while getting dressed for bed, thinking of little else.

His eyes fall on the ring box and Bucky palms it, before slipping it into the pocket of his sweats. He forgoes a shirt entirely, he’s warm anyway, and gets under the covers, while he waits for Steve. Bucky opens his eyes when their mattress dips, lips curling into a lazy smile. He’s followed by Luna, who promptly situates herself at their feet and Bucky is too tired to reinforce her training and ask her to get off. 

He turns to face Steve and leans into a smiling kiss. It’s a little sloppy and uncoordinated and Steve tastes minty from the toothpaste, but Bucky feels happiness course through him anyway, slow like molasses, filling him up with warmth.

He pulls back with one last press of lips against Steve’s nose. “Steve.”

“Yeah, honey?” Steve smiles blearily, although he looks a lot less drunk than an hour ago. Bucky feels the same way, the serum doing its thing.

Bucky feels the words slip out of him, unstoppable in the wake of feeling this content. “Marry me,” he whispers, and watches as Steve looks at him wide-eyed.

He continues. “I’ve been looking for a perfect moment, thinking about how to ask you, but nothing felt right. Today though, it was kinda perfect wasn’t it?”

Steve nods, his eyes liquid. “It was.”

Bucky digs the box out, and flips it open between them. “‘S’gonna be the rest of our lives, Stevie. I love you. Marry me?”

Bucky leans into the touch when Steve shuffles closer and cups his face, smiling. “‘Course I’ll marry you. I’ve been ready to marry you for a long time, Buck,” he murmurs, leaning into a kiss. Bucky kisses him back, smiling, before he pulls back to slip the ring into place. It fits, and he takes a second to marvel at the sight. He’s  _ engaged.  _ He leans back in, but Steve is pulling back.

“Be right back,” he says, before turning to rummage through his art drawer in their nightstand. 

Bucky smiles. Neither of them have been subtle about it, he knows Steve has a ring. Has had one, for a while now. Steve returns, flipping his box open in an echo of Bucky’s gesture. He huffs an embarrassed laugh. “Couldn’t figure out how to ask.”

He looks at the ring in front of him, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He gets to have this.  _ They _ get to have this. He laughs wetly, suddenly more overwhelmed than he had been a few moments ago. “We’re a pair, huh?”

Steve laughs softly but doesn’t disagree. “Marry me?”

“Already asked you, punk.”

Bucky grins when Steve takes his hand. They’re almost nose to nose, and Steve slips his hand into Bucky’s and Bucky can feel where the cool metal of the ring touches him and it’s. A lot. So much more than he thought he’d ever have. He kisses Steve then, soft and unhurried. “Yes,” he murmurs, pulling back as Steve slides the ring into place. It feels right on his arm like few things have.

Bucky kisses him again, because he can, swallowing the soft, surprised sound Steve makes. “I love you.”

Steve looks at him fondly, their fingers still intertwined. “I love you too, Buck.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you thought, comments and kudos are appreciated! <3
> 
> also, feel free to [reblog](https://hasan-minhaj.tumblr.com/post/614158478542520320/fault-lines-14k-teen-up-steve-wakes-up-from) and/or [retweet](https://twitter.com/history_huh/status/1245173491348811777)!


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